Sunday with Mycroft
by SeenaC
Summary: Next part of my ongoing narrative.  Sherlock & John meet Mycroft's son.  Chapter 4:  The "big talk."  How will it end for John & Sherlock?  Slash, very mild sexual content  PG-13 .  COMPLETE!  Please give final reactions!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **I am starting this portion of my narrative on 25/7/11, the one-year anniversary of the broadcast of "A Study in Pink". (At least, that's what the internet tells me!) So, it seemed appropriate to mark it by working on my next installment. As always, told from John's POV.

This begins immediately following "A Night at the Symphony."

**Warnings:** Slash, but nothing explicit. Somewhat fluffy.

**Disclaimer:** Not mine, no money made by me. Labor of love only.

**Beta:** The wonderful Jarri Scythe!

Sunday with Mycroft

I awoke Sunday morning with a feeling of dread in my gut. It took me a few seconds to remember what it was I was dreading. Then I rolled over, saw Sherlock sleeping, and remembered.

I quickly exited the bed as carefully as I could so as not to disturb him. I gathered my things and headed to the bathroom. I planned on taking a long, leisurely shower to think things through and hopefully steady my nerves.

It worked, to a certain extent. Physically, it was both relaxing and invigorating, but my emotions emerged from the shower as tangled as they went in. I wasn't sure if I was suffering temporary insanity, or realizing something that had been beneath the surface all along. I also hadn't a clue as to what to do about my current situation. Ideas ranged from moving out to trying to tell Sherlock about my new found feelings. Part of me was afraid that the latter might end up with the former.

I finally decided that I simply needed more time to sort out what I really wanted. I still couldn't make sense of what seemed to be conflicting urges.

After Sherlock was up and about I brought up the subject of going to Mycroft's to meet Margaret and Taliesin.

"Do you think we should bring anything?" I asked.

"Mycroft said no."

"Yeah, but you only meet your nephew once. It might help break the ice with him," I suggested.

"Did it occur to you to mention this before? "

"Sorry, I just happened to think of it now."

Sherlock cast his eyes around the flat and then started picking up what seemed to be random things for my approval.

After vetoing the skull, the can of spray paint from the "Blind Banker" case, a scimitar (_where did he get that?_ I wondered), and a few other highly inappropriate items for a five year old, Sherlock's eyes lit up.

"I know just the thing," he said and began searching his bookcase.

He pulled out a good-sized book, dusted it off and handed it to me with a triumphant smile.

"I got this from Mummy and Father when I was about Taliesin's age."

I took the book titled "A Handbook of General Scientific Knowledge." It didn't appear to be particularly aimed toward children, but did seem to be a fairly easy introduction to all of the major branches of science.

Sherlock seemed quite proud of his brainwave.

"Mycroft told us he can read, and indicated that most of his education has been in languages and literature, so I can introduce him to science!"

I nodded, "Good, I think it's a good choice, Sherlock. Kids are smart, and he'll know that you're not patronizing him, especially when you tell him you owned it as a child."

"What about you then?"

"Me?"

"What are you going to give him?"

"You think I should give him something?"

"You're meeting him as well."

"But...I'm not his uncle."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Obviously, but he's likely to see you just as much as me, isn't he?"

"I...I don't know...maybe, I guess."

"Well, you'd better hurry, if you have to go to the shops you don't have much time."

I ran upstairs to my old room and began pulling my meager possessions out.

What on earth did I own that I could possibly give to the newest scion of the Holmes family?

What does one give a tiny prodigy?

Then, when I saw it at the bottom of one of my boxes, I knew what I was going to give him.

I came downstairs, feeling pleased with myself and Sherlock immediately locked his eyes on the narrow case I carried.

"What is that?" he asked.

"It's my old recorder. The first instrument I ever played. I got it when I wasn't much older than Taliesin."

"Your first instrument?"

"A few years later, after I became a bit more proficient, I switched to clarinet."

Sherlock looked positively dumbfounded, "You never told me you played."

"Oh, I haven't for years, I'm sure I'm horribly rusty. I certainly wouldn't dare play in front of you."

I took out the recorder and started looking it over, "I want to make sure it's clean before I give it to him. I figured it makes a good first instrument. There's no reeds to fuss with, and it's very easy to finger."

I played a few scales, just to reassure myself that it still worked and sounded pleasant, and that I remembered the fingering, as I would need to show Taliesin.

I then ran through a few childhood melodies like "Twinkle Twinkle" and "Frere Jacques" also to reassure myself that I could still play them in order to teach Taliesin to play something.

When I was done I looked up to see Sherlock looking at me angrily.

"What?" I asked.

"I can't believe you never told me you played."

"It never came up."

"But, you know that _**I**_ play!"

"Yes, and you're worlds better than me, so what does it matter?"

"But how do I know that when I _didn't even know you played?_"

"So what?"

"So...I just...I can't believe I didn't know that about you."

I smiled at Sherlock, "You're really upset about this!"

Sherlock immediately became remote, "I am not upset, just surprised. I would have thought that...knowing that I _do_ play, that maybe you would start again. Maybe we could play together."

I laughed, "Not likely, I told you, I haven't played for years."

"But you still have your clarinet."

I nodded, "Yes, I do."

"Why keep it if you never intend to play it again."

I began to feel nervous.

"Sherlock, I'm not going to play in front of you, at least, not any time soon. If my ability is a candle, yours is...a bonfire."

Sherlock is susceptible to flattery, and smiled slightly at this.

"Well, why don't you let me be the judge of that?" he asked.

"No," I said firmly.

He sighed, "Fine. Are you ready? Because we really ought to be going soon."

So, with our gifts in hand, we left to go meet Mycroft's son.

TBC

A/N: Apologies for this very short chapter, but I wanted to get something up after being away for more than a week.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N**: I probably should have mentioned this before, but I got the idea of working in the clarinet from John's mentioning to Sara in "The Blind Banker."

**Warnings:** Same as before

**Disclaimer: **Same

**Beta: **The wonderful Jarri Scythe!

Sunday with Mycroft - 2

Sherlock and I arrived at Mycroft's and were greeted by him at the door. He ushered us in to his formal sitting room where he introduced us to Margaret and Taliesin.

Margaret was the same smiling, lovely young woman I remembered from Mycroft's surveillance shot. She came across as very friendly, almost eager to be our friends. She advised us that her son preferred to be addressed as Tim.

Tim was, well, in appearance he was Sherlock in miniature, except for the color of his eyes. Instead of Sherlock's stormy grey with flecks of blue and green, Tim had sapphire-blue eyes. He shook our hands when Mycroft introduced us to him with a solemn formality that I didn't think a five-year-old could posses.

_That must be the Mycroft in him,_ I thought with an inward smile.

Mycroft introduced Sherlock as "your uncle" and me as "his friend, Dr. Watson."

As Tim shook my hand he looked up at me seriously and asked, "Who are you?"

I was slightly taken aback, but tried not to show it.

"I'm Dr. Watson, your uncle Sherlock's friend."

"Are you my uncle too?"

My heart began to pound. I was terrified of putting a foot wrong in such a delicate situation. I realized how confusing all this must be to such a young child. Worse still, I had no idea how to answer the question Tim was really asking.

"No," I said, "I live with your uncle because we're very good friends and I help him with his work."

I could feel my face was turning red.

Tim looked as if he was going to continue questioning my presence in his life, but Margaret broke in.

"Sherlock and Dr. John are friends the way you and Andrew are friends," she said, "but since they're grown up they decided they wanted to live together, they have more fun that way."

She smiled brightly at me. Tim nodded and was apparently satisfied with the explanation.

I was relieved, but left with a very unsettled feeling.

Sherlock and I gave Tim his gifts and he seemed very impressed with both of them. The recorder held the immediate interest, as he was already very familiar with books, but not musical instruments.

"I've been meaning to get him started on music lessons," Margaret said almost apologetically, "but I just hadn't done it yet, so this is a really lovely gift."

"Well," I cautioned, "I'm not qualified to give him lessons, but I can get him started."

I showed him how to hold and finger the recorder, then walked him through scales and a few simple melodies. He took to it like a duck to water, and was soon experimenting on his own.

After a few minutes, Margaret gently suggested that he take a look at "Uncle Sherlock's book."

Tim immediately set the recorder down and took the book over to Sherlock, asking to be read to.

Sherlock had a strange mixture of amusement, fear, and pride all running across his features.

"Well, Tim, it's not a story, but I can read you my favorite parts."

Within a few minutes they were side by side on Mycroft's couch, with Sherlock explaining the periodic table to him while Margaret looked on, looking pleased and happy.

"John."

I jumped slightly, Mycroft was at my elbow.

"Would you mind coming and helping me in the kitchen?"

"No, of course not, happy to help."

I followed Mycroft down a long hallway into a kitchen that managed to simultaneously keep its Georgian feel while having all the latest appliances and gadgets. There was some serious money invested in here.

I watched in surprise as Mycroft put on an old, flowered apron. He saw me looking and smiled.

"Mummy's. I always wear it when I work in here."

He began taking trays out of the refrigerator and arranging them on a large wooden island in the middle of the room.

He set me to work (after I'd washed my hands) transferring the various dishes from the trays to serving dishes while he chopped crudités and prepared a dressing.

"My goodness Mycroft! Did you do all this yourself?"

"No, Tim and Margaret spent the night last night, so we three worked on it together. But I would have. Sherlock plays the violin to think, I prepare food. And, lately, I've had a lot to think about."

"I guess so," I said rather absently, trying not to spill or ruin anything.

"John, when are you going to tell Sherlock?"

The question totally stunned me. For a moment, all I could do was stare at him in shock.

"Tell him what?" I finally croaked.

"How you feel about him. It's obvious that something has changed. When Tim asked you _who you were_ you looked positively gutted."

I was getting over my shock and moving straight into anger.

"I know you won't believe me when I tell you this, Mycroft, but there really are things in this world that are none of your business. Don't you have enough to be going on with right now?"

Mycroft shrugged, "I know my brother. He's going to spot the change very soon. I'm only surprised he hasn't already. Don't you think it would be better for both of you if you went to him, rather than having him confront you later?"

My anger was leaking away, leaving fear in its wake.

"How can I tell him what I feel, when I'm not sure of it myself?"

As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I was sorry I had said them. Mycroft was the last person I wanted to be discussing this with, especially a Mycroft Holmes wielding a knife. In spite of his self-professed dislike of "legwork," I've never doubted the man could be quite lethal, if he chose to, flowered apron or no.

Mycroft didn't immediately reply, concentrating on producing a series of perfectly formed rosebuds carved from cherry tomatoes. One tiny part of my brain wondered how that was even possible.

"Well, as I said before, I know my brother. I'm pretty sure he's probably just as confused as you. Maybe if the two of you would actually _talk _to each other, you might be able to figure it out, between the two of you. It might take some time, but I have faith in you."

Mycroft smiled at me.

I was still rather frustrated with his high-handed approach.

I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Do you ever tire of being the boss of everyone and everything?"

Mycroft's smile evaporated.

"I'm hardly that, John. If I were, the world would be a very different place. Are you finished there?"

"Yes."

"Then let's get this to the dining room."

In a few minutes everything was laid out to Mycroft's satisfaction and he took off the apron and we called the other three in to eat.

Tim spent most of the lunch relating what he'd learned from Sherlock to his mother. He seemed to have absorbed the chemistry lesson as readily as he had the musical information I had given him. Clearly, he was quite a prodigy. Not that I had expected anything different!

Mycroft kept Sherlock's attention on himself. I wasn't sure if he was doing it on purpose or not, but I was grateful. I felt that I needed some time to regain my composure after what Mycroft had said to me in the kitchen.

To be continued...


	3. Chapter 3

**Warnings:** Slash, nothing physical.

**Beta: **All Hail Jarri Scythe!

Sunday with Mycroft - 3

After lunch was over Margaret took Tim off for his "quiet time."

"He says he's too old for naps," Margaret told me conspiratorially with a smile, "but I still want him to have a bit of a rest in the afternoon, otherwise he does get rather tetchy later on."

We all accompanied them to the suite of rooms that Mycroft had prepared for them. There was a small bedroom with two twin beds, and a larger "playroom" with bookshelves, a desk, a drawing table, and posters on the wall. One of the posters, at my suggestion (and to Sherlock's annoyance) was a large diagram of the solar system.

After Tim was settled on his bed, reading Sherlock's book, we returned to the sitting room. We had barely sat down again before Sherlock was announcing that we should be off. Both Mycroft and Margaret looked disappointed.

"Well, before you do," Margaret said, "let's all put each other's numbers in our phones. After all, we're all family now, and we have to put up with each other, so we may as well start by getting to know one another. We can ring each other up for tea and such."

Sherlock looked a bit alarmed at this declaration of intended intimacy, but I shot him a warning look that kept him from protesting verbally.

After that had been done, Margaret cheerfully advised of her intent to contact us soon, and then Mycroft ushered us to the door.

I shook Mycroft's hand and said, "Congratulations, Mycroft. I think Taliesin is a very fine young man, certainly a son I would be proud of."

Mycroft actually turned a bit pink and said, "Thanks John. I feel the same and I plan to do my best for him."

Sherlock suddenly spoke up, "Oh, say Mycroft, I forgot to tell you this yesterday, but I saw Lestrade yesterday morning and he wanted me to send his regards to you."

Mycroft turned even pinker, "Oh, well, when you see him tell him thank you and give him my regards as well."

Sherlock smirked, and then we were off.

"What was that about?" I asked once we were on the street and looking for a cab.

"Oh, Mycroft has a _thing_ for Lestrade, always has," said Sherlock as he waved a taxi down.

"Really?" I said in surprise as we got in, "how do they even know each other?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Through me, of course. They met while I was in rehab. Mycroft had to meet the man who had succeeded where he had failed."

"You went to rehab because of Lestrade?"

"Yes, he threatened to cut me off from all cases until I got clean. So I quit. But he wouldn't believe that I'd stay clean unless I went through some sort of silly program, so I checked myself in, even though I was no longer using."

Sherlock paused, looking grumpy, "It was ridiculous. I wasn't _addicted_, I was only using. I knew what I was doing."

"If you think you're going to be able to justify the use of narcotics to me, don't bother trying," I said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes again, "This, coming from a doctor who probably regularly prescribes them."

"The drugs I prescribe are different."

"Only by degree."

I gritted my teeth, "I'm not going to argue this issue with you. Lestrade was perfectly right in denying you work as long as you were using."

"So anyway," continued Sherlock, waving his hands dismissively, "they met, and Mycroft has been half-heartedly pursuing Lestrade ever since. It's a bit embarrassing, really. I'm not entirely sure Lestrade's even aware of it. Sometimes I think he is, sometimes not."

"Huh," I said in surprise, "is Mycroft gay?"

Sherlock snorted, "No, Mycroft is an opportunist. He sees a lonely man who probably shares a similar value system and outlook on life, who would also be as discreet as Mycroft needs him to be. I'm sure the only thing that's holding him back is that such an arrangement would put Lestrade in an awkward position - to be shagging one brother and working with the other."

"Is Lestrade gay, then?" I asked.

Sherlock huffed impatiently, "I don't know. I don't normally waste my deductive skills on people's sexuality unless it's pertinent to a case. I do know he's divorced, but that's very common amongst policemen."

We rode the rest of the way in silence, with me worrying over my conversation with Mycroft in the kitchen. I knew deep in my heart he was right, Sherlock WOULD notice the difference in my feelings, because they would show up one way or another in my behavior. Sherlock WOULD confront me about it, and did I want the conversation to happen that way? Or would it be better to start it on my own terms?

But what could I say? What did I want? What did I really feel? These were all questions I couldn't completely answer, which made me reluctant to start something I didn't know if I could finish.

By the time we arrived home, I had made my decision. Ready or not, I had to let Sherlock know that I had feelings for him. After all, we were sharing a bed, and if physical contact with him was going to cause - what it had caused last night - it was only fair that he should know.

We went up to the flat and I immediately began making tea, asking Sherlock if he wanted some. He said yes as he sat on the couch booting up his laptop.

When I came out with the mugs, ready to take the plunge, heart beating wildly; I saw that he was going through the file he'd been compiling on his mother's murderers.

I handed him the mug and sat down in my chair, "Working already?"

"Yes, now that we know that Margaret isn't going to make a fuss about Taliesin - Tim being in our lives, Mycroft has signaled me to go ahead with prosecuting Mummy's killers."

"Should I leave you alone, then?"

Sherlock looked up, "What do you mean?"

"If you're working, I don't want to disturb you."

"Disturb me how?"

I scratched the back of my head, "I don't know, being here...talking to you."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at me suspiciously.

"Something is bothering you. What is it?"

I picked up my mug and rolled it slightly back and forth between my hands.

"Last night..." I began, but didn't know how to continue.

"What about last night?"

I could see that Sherlock was getting impatient.

"Why did you curl up in bed against me last night?" I asked.

He looked surprised.

"I told you, John. I've noticed that when we're in bed together, you don't seem to have violent nightmares. So I thought that if I were in bodily contact with you, it might quiet your subconscious mind and you wouldn't have another one after falling asleep. I'm sorry that I did something you didn't like. I won't do it again."

"No, Sherlock. The thing is... the thing is...," I took a deep breath, "I did like it. I liked it a lot."

I brought myself to look him in the eye and hold it, putting all the meaning into it that I could.

For a long moment we stared at each other, my heart was hammering so hard I was sure he could hear it. I was watching him, doing my best to read him the way he could read me so well, that I could see the moment when his eyes went from curiosity to comprehension. A flush crept up his neck and spread over his face. I saw his pupils suddenly enlarge and the pulse in his neck accelerated.

"Oh!" he said quietly.

TBC...


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Apologies for the long delay. This was a difficult and scary chapter to write.

**Warnings:** Frank talk about sexuality and some mild sexual content. Nothing graphic.

**Beta: **Jarri Scythe. Thanks so much!

Sunday with Mycroft - 4

_"I told you, John. I've noticed that when we're in bed together, you don't seem to have violent nightmares. So I thought that if I were in bodily contact with you, it might quiet your subconscious mind and you wouldn't have another one after falling asleep. I'm sorry that I did something you didn't like. I won't do it again."_

_"No, Sherlock. The thing is...the thing is...," I took a deep breath, "I did like it. I liked it a lot."_

_I brought myself to look him in the eye and hold it, putting all the meaning into it that I could. _

_For a long moment we stared at each other, my heart was hammering so hard I was sure he could hear it. I was watching him, doing my best to read him, the way that he could read me so well, that I could see the moment when his eyes went from curiosity to comprehension. A flush crept up his neck and spread over his face. I saw his pupils suddenly enlarge and the pulse in his neck accelerated._

_"Oh!" he said quietly._

After his quiet exclamation, we went on staring at each other, waiting for further reaction from the other. Finally, I decided I should say something, as I had started the conversation.

"So," I began, "I just thought you should know...since we're sleeping together, you should know that I... I have these feelings for you."

Sherlock's eyes gave him away in that instant. For just a second I saw a burning need that seemed to scorch across my heart. But almost before I could fully register it, it was quickly replaced by panic, then...nothing. He had assumed his "I'm an unfeeling sociopath" mask.

It takes a long time to write it out and to read it, but it all happened so quickly, I would have missed it if I hadn't been watching for his reaction so closely. His ability to mask his emotions when he wants to is extraordinary, and if I hadn't had that momentary glimpse, all might have been very different.

"What are you doing, Sherlock?"

"What do you mean?"

"You're pretending. Don't pretend with me."

His lips tightened, the mask started to slip toward panic.

"Relationships are not my area, John. You know this."

"Is that why you're afraid of me knowing the truth?"

"I'm not afraid."

"Stop lying to me, Sherlock. If I mean anything at all to you, please don't lie to me."

Sherlock got up and paced the room, running his hands through his hair.

"As I said, relationships are not my area, but even I know that romantic entanglements are the most volatile, short-lived type of relationship that humans generally have. I don't want that with anyone, least of all you, John."

If I hadn't had that momentary glimpse of his desire, I would have misunderstood his meaning completely.

"You think that if we become involved that it will end our relationship?"

"Statistically that is the most likely outcome. I can't take that chance."

"And if I told you that won't happen?"

He stopped his pacing and stared at me.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"What if I told you that I don't believe that our relationship would end?"

"I would ask you how you could make such a preposterous prediction."

"Do you believe that I'm a truthful person? Do you trust me?"

"Without question. I trust you with my life."

"I won't leave you, ever, unless you tell me to go."

"But that's just it, John. The last time I attempted...it ruined everything. I never saw her again. I didn't _want_ to ever see her again."

"Sherlock, come and sit."

I patted the couch next to me. He somewhat reluctantly came and sat down, but I noticed that he was very careful not to let any part of our bodies touch. I angled my body toward his, so that my knees bumped up against his, and he scooted away.

After a pause to collect my thoughts I took a deep breath and said, "Sherlock, just listen to me for a bit, and after you've heard me out you can tell me what you think. I'm not entirely sure what my feelings are. I've never felt for anyone exactly the way I feel about you. That doesn't really surprise me, because love is always different. The thing is, I've never felt these kinds of feelings for a man before. It's a little frightening and unsettling for me, and I'm not sure what form of physical relationship, if any, I would want to have with you."

I saw a flash of desire and fear from Sherlock at that, but both were gone instantaneously.

I continued, "So, I'm not promising that it will be easy, but what I can promise is that I'll never stop loving you. If I've learned anything since meeting you it's that being with you is what I want. I don't want to lose that, just as much as you don't. If we try something physical and it doesn't work for us, then that's fine, we just don't do it again. It doesn't mean that I'm going to want to leave you."

As I finished, I reached over and took one of his hands in mine and laced our fingers together.

He didn't say anything at first, just looked down at our hands.

Finally he spoke, "I believe you, John. But I can't help but be concerned that crossing that boundary could result in permanent damage if it didn't work out. I don't know how to be a lover, in any capacity. I hurt you enough as it is. How would it feel coming from an intimate partner?"

I smiled, "All lovers hurt each other sometimes. It's unavoidable because nobody's perfect. Love brings pleasure and pain. That doesn't worry me Sherlock, because it's _you_ that I want, just as you are. You make me happy, even when you're driving me crazy. That's just a temporary experience. Experiences aren't a basis for happiness or unhappiness. If that were the case, given what we've both been through in our lives, neither of us would ever be happy again."

Sherlock was silent for a long time, looking down as if he wanted to avoid looking at me.

Finally, he looked up and fixed me with a burning stare. There was such a powerful need in his eyes, I was almost dizzy from it, like staring at the sun, but I found I couldn't look away. I wondered if my own pupils were are large. I could certainly feel my heart race, and heat began to build in my belly.

"John," he finally said, "I've wanted you for so long."

His voice was low and husky with undisguised desire. I felt it like liquid fire in my veins.

He continued, "Ever since that night, when you shot the cabbie and I saw you standing there, outside the police tape. I never believed that I wouldn't drive you away. I never allowed myself to hope..."

"God, Sherlock, I'm sorry! I guess I've been blind. I had no idea that you've felt that way all this time."

"I denied the truth to myself for a long time. Once I could no longer deny it, I comforted myself with what I did have, believing it would be enough. Just to have you here. Close, but not so close that you would have cause to grow to hate me. I'm still not sure that that's not the safest choice."

I smiled, "Sherlock, since when have either of us chosen the safe option?"

He didn't smile back, "I don't want to destroy what we have, destroy you in the process."

"You won't, Sherlock. I'm very durable. You ought to know that by now."

We were still holding hands, but Sherlock gently pulled away. His eyes were still full of naked desire, but also some fear. He seemed to be steeling himself for something.

He took a deep breath and said, "John, please kiss me."

My jaw dropped in surprise, although I also got a jolt of desire from the sultry, needy way he said it.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I need to know - if I can do this. I've waited so long..."

I decided in that instant that both of us need to stop thinking and talking. I leaned over and cupped his jaw, paused for just a second, then pressed my lips to his. I made it a definite kiss, but not intense or demanding. I pulled back and looked at Sherlock. His eyes were closed.

"Keep going," he whispered.

So I did, slowly and carefully, just as I would have proceeded with any of the women I'd dated. I gradually increased the length and intensity of the kisses, I pulled him closer, until I had one hand wound in the curls at the back of his head and the other around his back. His arms remained at his sides for awhile, but eventually he put them around me and we gradually tipped over on the couch, with him over me.

I was careful about how much I opened my mouth because I remembered Sherlock's feelings about saliva and hygiene, and how he had been put off by it previously. I decided he would need to make the first move in that area. All that careful thinking kept me from losing myself in the moment, but it was probably just as well. I didn't want to do anything that would frighten Sherlock off.

As we sank into the couch Sherlock made a small, satisfied sound then sat back up and let go of me. His face was very flushed, but he had a pleased expression.

"That was...nice," he said, "did you like it?"

"Er, yeah, it was very nice," I replied. I was pretty sure my face was equally flushed, I certainly felt hot.

Sherlock nodded, "Good."

Sherlock cleared his throat, "Well, if that's settled then I guess I ought to get back to Mummy's killers."

I had forgotten.

"Right. Sorry. This can wait, of course."

I stood up from the couch to let him get back to work. As I started to move away Sherlock reached over and took my hand.

"We'll continue tonight?" he asked.

"Oh God, yes."

End.

A/N: More to come...but this seemed like a logical ending point for now...feedback is begged!


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